The Complexities of Vengeance
by x-LoveIsOurResistance
Summary: 'There is more to him than you would think. There is still a human somewhere inside of him.' Because not everyone is as simple as you assume. Not even Vladimir Makarov.    Makarov/OC.
1. Chapter 1

_**a/n: **So, hi there. This is my first ever Call of Duty fiction and I'm not going to lie, I'm kind of nervous about the reception I'm going to get. I've been reading lots in this genre, both stories and reviews and I suppose I've noticed people can be a little harsh. It's not I don't like constructive criticism because I do, I find it awfully helpful (I know how I write isn't to everyone's taste)- I'm just worried because I've inserted an OC in my very first fiction she's not going to be appreciated. I don't think I've created a Mary-Sue (not that you're going to truly get to know her in this first chapter), so fingers crossed.  
><em>

_This story is going to focus on Makarov. At first, I will set the story and he will be kind of MIA, but the main bulk of this will be filled of flashbacks, telling of how my character and Makarov have developed their unique and complex relationship. It's not going to be lovey-dovey and cliché because that grosses me out too. Makarov is evil, there's no denying that, but I really don't believe that he can be simply described as a 'sociopath'. Maybe I interpret him another way, possibly completely unlike the way he's supposed to be interpreted, but he's clearly a passionate enough man about what he believes in. He must have some feelings. Somewhere. Maybe.._

_So yes. I hope you enjoy. :3  
>Also, I would like to add, as much as I am insanely attracted to this fictional, evil and dead terrorist, I do not sympathize with him. His goals or his ways (as it may sometimes seem in the story). <em>

**CHAPTER ONE.**

Safe house was a term that he had never fully understood, even if it was such a common phrase in his conversations as of late. There was nothing safe about an inconspicuous old cabin nestled away in a rarely explored section of faraway mountain. For a location could be anywhere on the face of the Earth but it would never be safe when you had people who were hunting you. Mad dogs who wanted you dead with a passion most men never lived to experience. These men hold blindness to the fact they aren't the only men to have passionate beliefs and morals imprinted on them. The kind of passionate beliefs that have now turned them in to vicious murderers – even when that makes them in to the kind of people they live to kill. They are told a certain way to think is correct and it is accepted by them without question, they are merely pawns to a higher power. Foreign dictators from past and present who run countries successfully – even if brutally - are cast aside as Hell bringers and cold men with no thought for anything but power and money, death and destruction. But when one man rises up and condemns these powerful nations for being nothing more than power hungry narcissists, he is labelled as an anti-Western pig; heartless and backward and living in a past world. They talk of freedom and freethinking but only when it shines a positive light on them. Hypocritical, isn't it?

"We are almost here," a husky voice spoke out in its Russian mother tongue from the front seat of a fast moving vehicle. His voice was interrupted with each new bump in the rocky path to their destination. "Nevsky and Korshunov will first check the area once more. Then, we will proceed to the drop off and secure the location."

"My transport will be waiting?"

The back seat of the tinted windowed vehicle was occupied by two people with some distance between them. Vladimir Makarov, to the left, looked paler than usual and the dark circles that lay beneath his eyes gave the distinct impression he hadn't slept in days. His protection was sparse, nothing more than a Kevlar vest which he wore out of paranoia more than necessity for the journey; an ambush was more than unlikely at this time. It was better to be paranoid than be dead, however. His weaponry was even sparser, but the things he could do with a knife and a pistol would turn the stomachs of hardened criminals and haunt them for the rest of their lives. Arms would be ready and waiting for him where they were going. There was something dishevelled about his appearance overall – his messy hair and stubbly chin suggested he didn't care about vanity right now and it made him look even more like he was on the edge. They were trivial matters at this point. But in his hand, there was no weapon or mobile device, simply another, slightly smaller hand. It was a feminine, with lengthy, bony fingers – the index of which was adorned with a beautiful and intricately engraved golden band. Her hair was dark, but the kind where it was hard to tell whether it was black or merely the darkest of browns, cascading lazily and unshaped around her shoulders. Her skin was lightly tanned, only accentuating the scars that ladened her body both in and out of sight. But then was her face. There was no denying her beauty for it was the only reason she was sat beside him right now, instead of being face down in some ditch in a country she didn't care to know the name of – abused and broken. But she had been different and had the kind of unconventional look that had caught his attention. Her eyes, like his, did not match. The left was scarred to the point her pupil looked non-existent behind a cloud of blue-ish gray and it all gave a rather sinister look about her. But as she sat, hand-in-hand with a monster, she felt even more so than she appeared. This woman was Nina Valikhanova and she _belonged_ to this man. The gesture wouldn't appear as romantic to anyone who may have seen. It looked more like he was holding the hand of a small child as he aided her across a busy road, simply a guide to cling on to. But she knew better than anyone it was hard for him to show any remote display of affection.

"A helicopter will arrive twenty-five minutes after our arrival." The same voice, belonging to one of Makarov's most trusted men, Anatoly, informed his boss from his driver's seat.

Makarov responded with nothing more than a fractional nod of his head and the vehicle plunged in to an eerie silence once more. All that could be heard was the sound of the cars both in front and behind them, travelling up the winding and rocky roads at dangerous speeds with no consideration for the ice and snow that engulfed the landscape.

"Your hand is warm." He spoke up after long minutes of quiet but he didn't turn to face her or speak loud enough to gain the attention of their driver. There was an air of confusion about his statement. How could she possibly be warm when each word that left his lips turned to clouds before his very eyes?

"My hand is normal. Your hand is just cold." She responded, letting her other hand make its way to rest on top of his in an attempt to transfer some of the heat to his icy cold skin. A small smile tugged at her thin lips but he did nothing to mirror it and once again everything was quiet between them. She gave his hand a soft squeeze in hopes to elicit some kind of acknowledgment of her gesture but still, nothing. It was hard to hold back the sigh that had threatened to escape her but she had learned to control such things that might only anger him.

It remained that way, silent but surprisingly un-awkward, until they finally pulled to slow a stop outside of his grand 'safe house'. Covered in a coarse blanket of snow, it looked rather like something from a story book picture. Nina had only been here once before now in her whole four years at his side because he made it very clear that he wished to keep her separate from his working life as much as he possibly could. When _everything_ about his work controlled _everything_ he did, she didn't see how that was possible but she was in no place to argue with him.

Anatoly stepped out of the vehicle and as soon as his door opened, a flood of icy cold air attacked both of the backseat passengers. It searched for their exposed skin and whipped at them ruthlessly as they clambered out of the vehicle themselves, desperate to head inside for some kind of warmth. Or at least Nina was. Makarov seemed to be completely unfazed by the sudden dip in temperature. Other men exited the vehicles surrounding them, speaking amongst themselves about things she couldn't make out before meeting with two men who were waiting at the door, armed with large guns, held close in waiting. Their faces hidden behind dark scarves and hats and it made them unrecognizable and rather intimidating. They had sharp and untrusting eyes, observing every move with suspicion. Makarov reached an arm out and curled it around Nina's shoulders in a sore attempt at protecting her body from the cold, pulling her closer toward him as he guided her inside of the cabin.

"You will stay here while I'm gone."

Ignoring the men pacing around the expansive living area, he instead led her up the stairway and along a narrow corridor. Everything smelled of damp wood and it was clear that no one had stayed here in quite some time. She trailed her fingertips along the wooden panelling of the walls, her eyes briefly lifting to look at his face. They were angular, his features. His nose was slightly pointed and his eyebrows dipped in a way which made him look naturally unapproachable and cold. But, there was still something about him that was undeniably attractive – if only physically.

"And where are you going so soon?"

Makarov smiled at this – what seemed like a genuine one, something of a rare occurrence, she'd observed during their time together. There had always been such an innocent seeming curiosity about her, a trait which would on anyone else be a death wish when it came to his business. However the smile was accompanied with an even more uncharacteristic chuckle, rather like that of a father assuring his daughter she is far too young and irrelevant to be worrying about such things. It was slightly insulting but she'd grown accustomed to his ability to hide the things she most wanted to know.

"Somewhere warmer than here." He responded vaguely, his voice void of any real emotion.

"Why can't I come with you?" She asked, her eyes falling to the ground at her feet as he led her into a separated room. He shut the door behind them with a quiet click. It was not a question she'd ever asked him before and she briefly wondered how badly he would take it.

"It's dangerous."

"Then you shouldn't be going either. Send someone else."

Unlike his voice, hers held a real concern. A concern for his wellbeing he rarely received from anyone besides her.

The room was small and she let her eyes glance around momentarily. It was almost bare except for a larger-than-double bed, a small chest of drawers and an old looking, oak writing desk. The bed was made neatly with bland looking sheets and everything looked to be perfectly in place. On top of the desk laid several stacked books and a lamp that looked too small to be of any use. It took him longer to reply to this last statement and she wandered over to the bed, settling herself down on the edge of what was surprisingly a rather comfortable mattress. Maybe staying here wouldn't be so bad after all.

"It's too important to leave with someone else. I have to be there and you can't come. It would be inappropriate."

This time he'd spoken more firmly and she realized it was time to drop the subject there and then for fear of aggravating the easily angered man before her. Although she had never annoyed him to the point of sending him to violence, he often screamed in a way which somehow felt scarier that the idea of being physically punished. Nina nodded her head and fell silent as he stood stiffly next to the closed doorway, eyeing her up as if expecting another argument on her behalf. Not another word came.

"I will only be gone a day or two." He tried to reassure her, although he didn't pull off the attempt very well. It was as if changing his voice from its kind of stern monotony was too much of an effort. He walked over to the bed, his heavy steel-toed boots thudding on the floor with each step before he finally came to rest before her. The inch-or-so taller man crouched down in front of her so they were almost at the same height, coming face to face with her as she looked up from her feet. There was something captivating about this one, something that had caught him off guard the first time he'd seen her. It wasn't necessarily her beauty as scores of more attractive women had passed through his life without grasping so much as a second thought once they were gone. Maybe it was her youth; her round and innocent face that reminded him of childhood memories. Makarov leaned forward slightly and pressed a lingering kiss to each of her rosy-from-the-cold cheeks. He whispered against the soft skin. "When I'm back, I'll take you somewhere warm where there is no business. Somewhere away from here. Just you and I."

Although his words sounded genuine, she knew better than to expect anything close to a promise from him. Something always cropped up; he needed to be somewhere to carry out a devious and intricate plan with his men or to meet with a weapons dealer who would sell him arms to kill people she never wished to think about. People who could be innocent with families and small children they would never get the chance to return home to. Yet she would sit back and smile as if thankful for the words, nodding her head lightly in response.

"I think that sounds like a very good idea."

Tearing his eyes away from her, he reached down to un-holster his handgun, turning it to face from her as he handed it over. He then slipped a cell phone in to the breast pocket of her silk blouse.

"Keep away from the window. Two of my most trusted men are outside of your door if you need anything. Do not hesitate to ask."

The idea of leaving her alone wasn't one he enjoyed.

It was the first time she'd held a weapon since she'd been with him. The first time in four _excruciatingly _long years. Although she had been surrounded by them as if they were the most normal thing in the world, the gesture took her somewhat by surprise. This had to prove he had the ultimate trust in her, while knowing many of the things he'd done; she wouldn't turn it on him and blow his brains out like any sane person who encountered him would? He hadn't even looked reluctant. Makarov got to his feet without any kind of explanation on how to use the cold metal object in her hands. She was unsure whether this was because he believed her to know how to use one already or whether he just forgot that not everyone was as trigger-oriented as himself, considering it was almost innate behaviour for him now.

And then he left.

Without a single word of goodbye and nothing more than a small squeeze of her stiffened shoulder, he marched out of the room. She heard him utter something to one of the men outside before the door shut and she was plunged into utter aloneness. It might have been strange that she was surrounded by a dedicated man power that would kill any intruders without hesitation but still felt a little unsafe now that Makarov was leaving. Even with the gun that was still grasped in her relentless grip. Nina slumped back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, her eyes trailing over to a spider that was walking across it at a lazy pace. The loud whirring of what was obviously a helicopter approached after what seemed like an age, growing from a quiet hum to a thundering rumble in a short space of time. It came so close that she could feel the vibrations through the bed frame and could hear the window panes rattling loosely as it stationed itself outside to pick up Makarov and a handful of his men. All she could think about was where it was going to be taking them and it was burning in her mind for hours after it took flight and disappeared over the immense wooded area.

It was beginning to get dark outside now and the clouds above looked almost like a shade of lilac. She hadn't ever seen a sky like that before, she observed. Getting to her feet, she heard manly voices conversing outside of her door and took it as her cue to head over – maybe they would be talking about something of interest to her. Pressing her sticky-out ear to the door, she tried to make out their faint voices through the thick, dark wood. It was difficult, but she could hear them faintly. One spent countless minutes rambling on about his marital issues, which seemed a little odd and caused her to roll her eyes in impatience. They talked about how cold they were. And for a brief while, they talked about her and Makarov's 'situation'. Pigs. It seemed like these 'trusted' men of his weren't exactly in the loop because nothing they discussed had any relevance to where Makarov was or what Makarov was doing right now.

It seemed to be a lost cause and she stood there until the outside fell into pitch black. Nothing. These men were complete imbeciles. The room was dark because she had neglected to turn on any light to the point that she may as well have had her eyes closed and her cheek was pressed against the cold wood for so long it felt like it had lost all feeling. But then, the sound of a gunshot caused her heart to stop beating and broke her out of her lazy stance. Maybe one of his men had popped off a round accidentally but she still jumped sharply.

Then there was another. And another after that. Followed by the shrill cries of Makarov's men downstairs. The sound of automatic gunfire started to ring out without breaks. There was a serious problem here. A commotion broke out and she pressed her lips together. It was imperative she stayed calm but she was being plunged into a world she'd become unaccustomed to after being under a protective wing of such a powerful man for so long. It felt like it was hard to breathe. The air had become thick with an uncharacteristic fear. Behaviour which used to be hardwired into her system was only now sluggishly kicking in after what sounded like the blast of a grenade rocking through the building.

The men outside her door shouted and she heard another flurry of gunfire. It was closer this time and one of the rounds from an enemy automatic managed to pierce through the wooden walls to the left of the doorway. This was not how she was supposed to die but the feeling in the pit of her stomach was telling her otherwise. Silently stepping over to press her back to the wall, she positioned herself beside the door – to the side of which she would be hidden when it was opened. Adrenaline was throbbing through her entire body causing her legs to feel a little weak beneath her. Inside her head she was cursing, the only thing that could stop her doing it aloud. Maybe they wouldn't look in here. It was clear the rooms were being systematically checked for something and that thought was completely inaccurate, but it helped slightly. Maybe they were looking for someone. How long would it take them to notice Makarov was no longer here and that they were too late?

The door beside her creaked into life and it began to open slowly. Her breathing stopped entirely, praying that she wouldn't be found.

The muzzle of the gun peeked around the edge of the door and it dawned on her that this was her chance. Not that she had much of a chance if all of Makarov's men had been picked off in what felt like such a short amount of time. But she wasn't one to give up, especially not to a bunch of unnamed men making an attempt on her life. Before the man wielding the weapon could make his way fully inside the pitch black room, Nina lifted her leg and kicked the door with all the force she could muster, catching the man's arm painfully between the doorframe and the door itself. Before he could force the door back open, she lifted the gun to shoot him in the wrist. It surprised her, being so out of practise, that she hit him on the first attempt.

The yell in pain was almost deafening and the gun clattered to the floor. Unable to yank his arm jammed in between the door, the only thing he could do was push it back towards her with all of his weight. And what seemed to be the weight of a few other men as well. They were cursing in Russian now, angry and insulting words.

The speed in which the door had shot open and the sheer force of the blow sent her body hurtling back towards the wall, her head rebounding off the wood painfully. It disoriented her but only for a moment as a man tangled his hand in her hair angrily in an attempt to yank her to her feet and back to her senses like a splash of cold water to the face. She let out a yelp as all her weight fought against the hair rooted to her scalp and she desperately fumbled around, her eyes snapping open as she found what she was searching for. Yanking the knife holstered against his thigh, she quickly stabbed it above the man's right knee with a grunt of pain as he dragged a handful of her hair with him during his collapse against the wall. It appeared to be more out of shock than anything and she quickly got to her feet and scampered to the door way with a whimper, leaving the blade lodged in his leg. Her heart was pounding out of her chest and she could see light, enough to make it clear that there were no more men outside of the door. Or so she thought. Until the butt of a gun collided painfully with her face before her eyes even met the man awaiting her outside of the room, plunging her in to complete unconsciousness.

It appeared they weren't looking for Makarov at all. They were looking for her.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO.**

"Wakey wakey, Sunshine."

It was an immediate snap back to reality. But what was colder, the tone of the unknown British voice or the ice water now drenching every inch of her body, she did not know. It had lashed painfully at the delicate skin of her face and brought her out of her previous blackout, soaking through every fibre of her clothing and making her feel a ridiculous kind of discomfort. Involuntarily, her body broke out in to increasingly violent shaking of which she'd convinced herself was thanks to the cold and nothing else. Not fear. If they wanted her dead, she would be dead already. This man was British, too, weren't they supposed to be the good guys? Now that she was awake, she was painfully aware of the injuries she'd received during her capture. The back of her head that had collided with the wall was throbbing incessantly and the right side of her face felt tight like it was swollen and stretching her skin. What felt to be a broken nose was a cherry on the cake.

Once her attention was dragged away from her wounds, she took note of her position. She was sat on an uncomfortable wooden chair, her hands bound behind her back with what felt like plastic cord. Her legs and waist were also tied in the same manner and she determined there was no way she could work herself out of this one any time soon – but that of course was the point of the predicament. Lastly, the blindfold stopping her sight meant that there was no way she could identify her captors.

Then came a swift slap to her face, from what felt to be a hard, calloused hand. The heat from the collision was an extra-painful contrast to her numb from the cold cheek.

"I'm awake! I'm awake."

Although she had let no sound out in response to the slap, her desperate tone let them know it hurt.

"Good. You speak English."

"How observant."

That earned her another smack, without warning or verbal accompaniment. Clearly answering back cockily wasn't approved and wouldn't be tolerated. Although it had amused her slightly and helped to calm her nerves, her body stiffened once more at the pain from the physical contact. A shooting pain shot down her neck and through her shoulder as her head lolled back slightly.

"Who are you? What do you want from me?" She grunted through a heavy accent, not bothering to lift her head back up straight for fear of being struck once more.

"You seem to be missing the point. This is an interrogation and I'll be asking the questions." His voice trailed off and was interrupted by what sounded like a wooden chair being dragged towards her slowly. She couldn't help but take notice of how distinct his accent was.

"Then ask me something, won't you? I have not got all day."

This time it wasn't so much of a slap as a punch to her lower jaw. It was enough to make her neck click nastily and the already bruised and swollen area of skin throb angrily in response. This man had some strength behind him, alright, and he knew how to throw a real punch. The words were spilling from her mouth before she could even think about the obviously violent consequences, but she still let out a cold laugh once she'd recovered from the blow. A cold laugh that continued shakily as she tried to calm herself once more. It was hard to not be some kind of scared, being held captive and cold and beaten by unknowns, but letting those emotions overrun her wasn't going to get her out of the chair, was it? They obviously wanted information but she wasn't that easy.

"Where is Makarov?"

Well wasn't that one hell of a question. Straight to the point then? It didn't surprise her for even a moment that this whole thing was about Makarov because she didn't exist to anyone else on the planet. How could she possibly be of any interest to anyone? Looked like this was going to suck no matter how she answered. If she answered cockily, this man would be further unimpressed and she wasn't sure how short his fuse was. But the truth was she really had no idea where Makarov had gone and if she told him that he was just going to assume her to be telling lies to cover up for him.

"Picking out drapes for our new apartment, I think. We have had a bit of a domestic before he left. We could not decide between red and gold..."

Everything fell silent and she waited for her punishment. Dead silent. The only thing she could hear was her heart pounding in her ears. No noise from the man before her or from what could be happening on the outside world, beyond her blindfold. Before the click of a cigarette lighter snapping open, lighting what she assumed to be a cigarette and then snapping shut again stole her attention. A cloud of cigar smoke engulfed her face a few seconds later and she felt herself struggling for breath against the bitterly familiar scent. It was sour smelling and utterly revolting.

"That is just rude." She muttered, coughing to clear her chest.

Without warning, she jerked a little as she felt the stinging, burning sensation of the lit cigar end being pressed into the sensitive skin of her neck. As much as she wanted to pull away from it, she was too secured to the chair to move. It elicited a shout on her behalf, somewhere between pain and the shock of the unexpected action. After a few seconds he pulled it back and took another drag.

"Rude is ignoring my question."

It amazed her how utterly calm his voice was. Almost bored sounding, if anything.

"I didn't ig-"

"Have you heard of a man named Khalid Al Ghazi?" He cut in before she could finish off a statement that would only make him angrier. Losing control and ending up hurting the only real lead they had on Makarov wasn't going to do anyone any good.

The name set off warning bells inside of her head and she froze for a moment, trying to remember where she'd heard it. It was badly accented as it left his lips but it was definitely familiar. The burning wound on her neck was distracting. Racking through everyone important that she had tried to memorize, their files and their faces, she attempted to come to some realization. And then it hit her like a shovel to the face that she did know of this man. Vaguely. And that this man was a Saudi Prince.

"No." She lied, but the fact her comeback had been straight forward and not some kind of joke to throw him off gave the man sat on the chair before her all the confirmation he needed that the word was a blatant lie.

"Now, are you sure about that?" He asked, his voice sounding more dangerous and threatening this time. Although she prided herself in not being overly scared by the situation thus far, his voice sent a little tingle down her spine that insisted she could be in real trouble here if she didn't start to cooperate. How was she going to get out of this one? Makarov wasn't supposed to be back for days and even when he returned, would he try to look for her? No one knew where she was. No one knew who she was, besides him. Would, thinking she will have spilled her guts about everything she knew about him, he choose to abandon her and seek revenge on the people who killed his men at a future time in a well calculated and thought out manner?

Before she could say anything in response to his question, she heard what sounded like a metallic door creak open on rusty hinges. A nasty, cold draught reminded her of just how chilly and damp her body was and sent a whole other set of shivers coursing through her body. It smelled dusty and mouldy and she couldn't help but want to know about where exactly she had been stashed.

"Got anything out of her yet?" A Scottish accent filled the room but the gravelly voice sounded a little weak, like talking was painful for him. It wasn't confident and calm like the man who was interrogating her. More desperate and sceptical than anything. It was a wounded looking MacTavish looking on at his Captain Price.

"Bugger all. I was thinking we could let her loose with Kamarov's men. The ones she injured. Maybe she'd be feeling a bit more talkative after that."

Clearly that statement was more for her benefit than his.

"You cannot be serious..." she scoffed.

Once more, she started to laugh and it was beginning to grate on Price's nerves that she wasn't going to break down as easily as they'd first thought. It wouldn't be long before the resorted to a real, more serious violence and he could only hope that this wasn't a complete waste of their time. But it soon became clear she wasn't talking about their questionable interrogative techniques.

"John?"

Price's face contorted into a look somewhere between confusion and suspicion as he stared at the girl, silently searching for some kind of explanation. Obviously it wasn't directed at him, instead, the younger male who shared his first name. Soap looked just as confused as Price but took a few wary steps in their direction.

"MacTavish, come on! Get this blind fold off of me!"

This time her accent had changed – it was no longer a strong, struggling at English Russian accent, now it was something foreign and unfamiliar. Something a little easier to understand and softer on the ear. Soap wasn't sure whether it was because the room was dark and his bleary blue eyes were tired from having just awoken, but he couldn't find anything familiar about the girl. But she sure as Hell knew who he was, which begged only one question: what the fuck was going on here? Running his hand across his Mohawk, his eyes narrowed slightly as he stepped up beside the chair Price was sat on. In honest truth, he was unsure of how he was supposed to respond.

"Who _are _you?" Price asked, relieving Soap of the pressures of finding a feasible reply.

"Untie me and I'll tell you."

Until now, the well built Scottish man had been unsure of what exactly was going on here. But at those words, the woman's lips had curved into a smirk that had been etched into a small, closed off part of his memory and he knew just where he'd seen her before. His eyebrows furrowed into an impatient frown as he stepped forward and yanked the blindfold up over her head, without any consideration for the way it caught on her broken and bruised nose. It was coming back to him now, that face. Slowly but surely, he remembered.

"Do either of you want to tell me what's going on here?" Price asked, impatiently this time. It was clear he didn't like the idea of being out of the loop.

As the woman cursed in pain from the removal of the blindfold, she opened her eyes with a couple of quick blinks. It took some time to adjust to the small amount of light in the room, the discomfort from the bruising around her eyes, all thanks to the nasal injury, now clear. But as soon as they were open and working, she focused them on MacTavish without hesitation. It stung for a while and she couldn't help but wonder how long she had been out of it before she'd even been blindfolded.

"We're barking up the wrong tree, Price. This isn't Makarov's girl. She isn't even Russian. This whole thing has been a waste of time." Soap stated impatiently.

"Then who the Hell is she?"

"You realize I am sitting here, right?" she rolled her eyes, sighing out through her nose and tugging slightly at the bindings fastened securely around her now sore wrists, in hopes they would take it as a cue to finally release her. But no such luck.

"Only know her as Yael, sir." Soap stated, his tone holding that of distaste. "We've caught ourselves a Mossad operative."

Price didn't seem to be expecting that. He looked visibly - if only a little - surprised.

"See. So, I am one of the good guys."

"Supposedly." Price grumbled quietly, stubbing out the end of his cigar on the hard concrete floor beneath them. The older man didn't seem to be convinced by her claim, eyeing her up in a cold silence as he contemplated the best way to handle the situation. Of course there was the possibility that he was convinced, but just didn't like what he was hearing. You could never trust those foreign intelligence agencies, you know. Not even from the countries you were supposed to be allied with. "Are you sure about this, Soap?"

"Positive."

"Then what exactly are you doing with Makarov?" Price demanded, turning back to the woman.

Yael ran her tongue along her top lip slowly, her eyes travelling from MacTavish to Price, before returning to MacTavish, lingering slightly as if she would rather speak to him. Although it hadn't been that long since she'd seen him, he'd seemed to have aged a great deal. She paused for a moment, determining exactly what she should be saying and revealing. The two men before her had well and truly screwed up seven long years of undercover work in a matter of hours and only now was the realization dawning on her. It was stirring anger in the pit of her stomach, something that she often struggled to contain. They were on the same team, after the same man and yet she was still tied up in this chair, undergoing unnecessary questioning.

"I was put 'undercover', as you say. I relay information about activities with Islamic extremists. Weapons, drugs, trafficking... They could be a direct threat to us."

"Why haven't you put a bullet in his brain?" Price asked, almost as soon as the last syllable had left her dried lips. He sounded disgusted but still strangely intrigued. "How can you spend your time with him and not feel like a traitor?"

"Don't insult me by suggesting I do not wish to kill him, because I do. Every single day I spend with him. But our war is bigger than any one man, understand that." Although she had said it, bitterly, she didn't expect him to understand and that was one of the most frustrating things she had to live with. America had her enemies and Great Britain had hers. But Israel was surrounded by governments and radical militant groups who thought they had no right to exist. "The information I gather saves many lives in my country. In many other countries in the Middle East. Even around the world. If I have to sell my soul to the devil, this seems like a good reason for doing it."

"You didn't save lives at the airport and now it's ended in war." Soap piped up before Price could get another word in.

"I cannot protect the world, John. If I was to kill him, someone would rise up to take his place. For the same things he stands for and with the same vicious ways of fulfilling their goals. But I can use him," her voice sounded hushed, her dull eyes narrowed meaningfully. It seemed to him as if she was almost trying to justify her actions to herself as well as to them. "I can use him to rid the world of people who fund such men. I can make it harder for them to unveil such brutal plans. That is our goal. That is _my _goal."

There was something about the way she spoke that seemed very genuine to him, regardless of what he wanted to believe about her. But she had the same kind of charm on his last time, wrapping him up in a world of lies, there being nothing genuine about her. How could he be so sure that every word leaving her lips wasn't untrue? The truth was he couldn't be sure and trust was a luxury nowadays. One that he wouldn't be giving out to her any time soon.

"How'd you manage to get so close? How'd he not figure you out?"

"Patience. It was three long years before he even laid eyes on me. Another two before I retrieved any usable information from him. It was a delicate situation. If I had pushed too hard he would have become suspicious and I would have no chance. Instead I focused on earning his trust. Being consistent. I was sceptical he even knew what the word trust meant, _but _there is more to him than you would think. There is still a human, somewhere inside of him."

"There is nothing human about him." Captain Price stated firmly, his voice as monotonous as ever.

There was something she considered to be very deranged about this man.

"With all due respect, you know only one side of him. You have not seen him in the same ways I have, yet you are quick to judge."

Price rose from his seat, pushing the light, wooden chair aside with ease. It clattered against the concrete floor as it lost its balance and fell over. He stepped forwards with a cold and hard expression, locking eyes with the woman he now considered to be quite insane. Leaning his head down, he whispered a few inches from her ear. It was in a tone that made her swallow hard, for the first time feeling genuinely terrified. There was something about this man that she didn't like. She looked away from him, slowly, so as not to alert him of the affect he was having on her. His fists were clamped so tight that his knuckles were beginning to turn white and he contemplated hitting her once more for good measure.

"_With all due respect_," he began, lifting his hand to grip her chin, causing her to forcefully look at him after an attempt she'd made to turn away, "if you sympathize with him, you're just as much of a scumbag as he is. You can't be trusted."

"Easy, Price..." Soap murmured, reaching his hand out to take the man's stiffened shoulder, hoping to ease him away from Yael before he did something stupid like strangle her. It took a lot to make Price look visibly angry, he'd learned. Usually he was the focused one, not letting emotions cloud his vision for a moment. When that happened, things went wrong, he'd always told him. But now Soap could practically see a vein throbbing in his forehead and it was off-putting to see this woman cower away from him. That wasn't to say that her answers weren't making Soap angry too, however. At his words, he felt his Captain loosen up slightly and he slowly began to return to a standing up straight position, his eyes not leaving Yael's until he turned and left. Agonizingly slowly. Without anything more to say to Soap, or the shaken up Mossad operative, he disappeared through the door, slamming it behind him.

Yael looked to Soap, clearly in hopes of some explanation for his friend's inappropriate behaviour but she gained no such thing.

"He's right, you know."

"If I had wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it. Untie me."

"Do you actually think that attitude is gonna make me let you go?" His eyebrows pulled together in a confused frown, looking at her in a way which suggested he couldn't comprehend her way of thinking. There was something about her that made her instantly easy to dislike and he wondered how on Earth she'd ever pulled off _wooing_ Makarov. Maybe that was exactly what he liked about her; after all, he was a psycho. Truth was, Soap didn't have a fucking clue and didn't plan on spending too much time thinking about it. All he needed to think about right now is how they were going to get rid of her and focus their sights back on hunting down Makarov once more, because clearly this girl wasn't in a sharing mood. The amount of time it would take to beat the answers out of a Mossad operative might have taken longer than it was worth.

Soap shuffled over towards the chair that Price had pushed over during his rare outburst. Well, it could only be defined as an outburst when you were describing him. Lifting it back to its standing position, he took a seat, straddling it so his chest was pressed to the back. He draped a heftily muscled arm over it and moved his eyes to lock with hers once more. Although he hadn't noticed it before, he had now, her eye was awfully damaged.

"What happened to your eye?"

"Is that really relevant to this situation?" She scoffed.

"Was it Makarov?" Soap asked, raising one eyebrow as he scanned for her reaction to his question carefully.

The woman before him stayed silent but looked back at him coldly, as if it were almost natural, not moving more than her chest heaving with each breath she took. The day her eye had been damaged was one she remembered the most vividly out of all her dangerous encounters at Makarov's side. It had also been the closest attempt on anyone's life she had ever seen. Somehow, they had managed to escape relatively unscathed although he definitely reached a whole new level of paranoid afterwards. Unscathed apart from her eye and one of his men who had been escorting them, of course. It was one of the few times she had been scared of the idea of dying. Her life didn't flash before her eyes or anything, but she had been the kind of scared she hadn't experienced before. It wasn't so much the manner in which it would have happened - even though she really did hate bombs - but more so the circumstance. To die as an accomplice of sorts to one of the most hated men on the planet would rain shame down on her for an eternity. Yael didn't exist to Israel anymore (at least not officially) and according to papers, never had. People wouldn't know that she was put there to do good things. They would see her face and would pin unspeakable things to her that she had never taken part in. She only existed when she was with him now and it was the biggest of all curses.

It was clear to him she wasn't going to answer so he strayed to another line of questioning, hoping that she would give something interesting up eventually. During times like these, he wasn't the most patient of men and more often than not, that was a bad thing.

"How did you do it, get close to him? How'd you find him?"

"Why should I tell you of anything?" She asked rhetorically, her tone bitter at the thought of sharing anything with him. She suspected he wouldn't be willing to share any intelligence they had gathered on Makarov.

"Thought you were supposed to be one of the good guys?"

When her credibility or motives were called in to question, it was reflexive that she became defensive.

"I am good. I was doing good by these things."

"So you keep saying." Once more, he sounded unconvinced by her statements. To earn Makarov's trust, he naturally expected the worst. That maybe she had been involved in other, smaller demonstrations Makarov orchestrated. He didn't doubt for a second that she held the capability to kill an innocent person and still sleep at night; otherwise she wouldn't have been given the task. "Yet you're unwilling to tell us what exactly you did. Seems strange, that."

It was only then she decided she would, reluctantly, speak up. The way things had gone, there was no way she could get back on side with Makarov and to reveal these details would not put her at any real risk. If it was going to get her out of this dire hell hole and away from this man, she would take the chance.

"I moved to a small, Loyalist village. It was not far from Vladivostok. It was actually rather nice, there." Her lips curved up in to a small, bittersweet smile and she closed her eyes, as if reliving the memories over in her head. Soap watched on with a genuine intrigue, shifting about in the chair silently. They'd seen firsthand what Makarov's men could do to a loyalist village and he could only assume this story did not have a pleasant ending. "Not many people had stayed after the other villages were taken by his men. Those too poor to leave for somewhere else. Those with families. Those who refused to bow down in fear to the Ultranationalists. They had no choice but to pray he would spare them. I was very lucky that night. It was unusual he would come to raid, but in this village there was a man who betrayed him."

"If you posed as a Loyalist, why didn't he kill you?"

"Those were the lucky ones..."

_Everything outside of her window was a beautiful kind of peaceful. It was warm for this time of year, you know. The moon was so large in the sky it was as if the small, wooden houses were glowing in the dim light. It appeared and disappeared at the will of the light gray clouds filling the starry sky. The badly worn roads that twisted through the collection of houses, around the church and the gas station, past the make-shift park, were silent of all travellers. For it was late enough for most people to be tucked up in bed and dreaming of a better life. Life in the village wasn't bad but it was nothing to be envied, either. This place had been a stark contrast after living her whole life a short drive from the enthralling, lively city of Tel Aviv. It had been three long years since she had moved here and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't be uninvolved with the inhabitants. _

_The house in which she stayed was small sized in comparison to many of the others dotted around. It had two bedrooms and a bathroom on the upstairs level and a kitchen and a living area on the downstairs. It was large enough for two people though and she had opened the residence to share with a woman she met a year in to her stay. Her name was Yuliya Plyushchenko and she was the closest thing Yael, or Nina as she was known, had to a friend. At that moment, Nina knew she would be asleep, curled up in the uncomfortable bed in the adjacent room, but there was too much on her mind to follow suit. It had been three years she had waited in this village and there was still no sign of any of the Ultranationalists taking interest. No sign of the one she wanted. The man who had betrayed Makarov still lived here, in his large house at the top of the steep hill, so she knew it was a mere matter of time. But she didn't know for how much longer she could remain patient. Nina was itching to get her hands on him and hurt him until he begged for her mercy. Sometimes, the ideas of how she would punish him once she'd used up all of his sources were the only things that got her off to sleep. But not tonight._

_The only sound she could hear besides a small trickling stream was a familiar dog barking some way away. He would always bark like this at the moon. _

_Nina rolled over under the covers to face the wall, the bed creaking slightly under her average weight from the movement. Staring at the patters in the wood she felt herself finally nearing something near tiredness. She had a big day tomorrow and knew she needed her rest, so she was willing to succumb to the urge. Before her gray-blue eyes could close, however, something caught her attention. A pop. It came from outside and echoed quietly a few times as the dog fell silent. It wasn't a loud pop, not where they were situated, but it was the kind of pop that sounded like distant gunfire. Maybe it was wishful thinking and was just a firework or something... but maybe it wasn't. The first scream filled the air, it was distant but being awake she could hear it as clear as if it was Yuliya in the next room. This. As sad and grotesque and scary as it was, __**this**__ was what she had been waiting for. Her heart was threatening to break out of her ribs as she sat bolt upright, slipping out of bed and heading over to the window. More pops started to echo out, from what felt like all directions. They were being surrounded. As it drew closer, she saw the light of the house next to hers flick on, no doubt the inhabitants coming to investigate exactly what the commotion was about._

_Flurries of men were starting up the hill, past the church, beginning to force their way in to houses. The light in the bedroom opposite flicked on and Yuliya walked out on to the small area above the staircase, rubbing at her eyes sleepily._

_ "Can you hear that, Nina? What is that noise?" She groaned through a yawn, walking over to where Nina was stood._

_Quickly, she headed over to her friend and grabbed her cold hand, taking the much shorter woman by surprise. Something was wrong because she could see the panic in the dark haired girl's eyes. Before she could give any kind of explanation, Nina was tugging the blonde down the narrow staircase and in to their living area. The first truly loud screams of terrified women started to flood in through a half-open window across the room. _

_ "What is going on?" Yuliya asked in a hushed voice, her eyes widened with fear. _

_ "The Ultranationalists are here. They are going to kill us!" she whispered back, her tone just as frightened. "Yuliya you have to hide. Hide now!"_

_The men were growing closer and the gunfire was loud, rapid. Like her heart beat. Pounding in her ears. It was like a constant stream of a noise that was making her feel sick to her stomach. The sound of death. People she saw every day of her life these past few years were being slaughtered by cold hearted and evil men. Men were being dragged away from their wives, their efforts to fight back futile. Children were clinging to their mothers, crying tears of fear as they watched their fathers and grandparents shot in the streets like dogs. The men showed no remorse; instead, some kind of sick enjoyment as two watched a man bleeding out from a wound on his back, crawling towards his young son, killed in the crossfire. They put him out of his misery shortly after with a few more shots to the torso. _

_Women were sobbing, being carted towards the church. Vehicles roared up towards the village, more men clambering out before they had pulled to any real stop. _

_ "What about you? You must hide, Nina!"_

_Pulling loose one of the wooden panels, she slid it enough to the side to let the slightly tubby body of Yuliya slip in to the cavity of the wall. It was a tight squeeze as these walls were not thick or well built. She helped her friend inside, pressing a hand to her cheek quickly. _

_ "Make no noise. Make no noise, Yuliya until you are sure they are gone. Do not leave until they are all away from this place."_

_ "There is room for you! Nina, move another panel!" she begged, her eyes welling up with tears of fear and guilt and other emotions overrunning her. _

_Nina offered her a sad smile and shook her head._

_ "I will see you soon." The brunette told her, her voice agonizingly hopeful. _

_Sucking in a deep breath through parted lips, Yuliya finally accepted and nodded her head, pressing as far back into the space as she could. The girl began to break down in to silent sobs. Nina pushed the panel to cover the gap and prayed that no one would notice it was slightly out of place. She prayed that no one would find this kind woman. If she could save just one thing from this village, knowing what these Ultranationalist pigs were like, Yuliya was what she wanted to save. _

_Nina stumbled away from the wall and before she could begin to figure out what she was going to do next, the door burst open and three, largely built men barged their way inside. One headed straight for her and her first instinct was to run. Running was hard when her legs felt like jelly. She let out a cry as he grabbed her roughly by the hair, pressing a gun to the back of her head. She wasn't going to die. She couldn't die. This wasn't what they did. They wanted her. The women. The other two men split from the room and headed around the rest of the house, calling out as each room was cleared and they found no one else of interest. She closed her eyes as she felt the cold metal against the back of her head. The other two men were leaving and they hadn't found Yuliya. It was the only positive thing she could even begin to comprehend right now._

_ "Move! Move it, now! Outside." the man shouted aggressively, saliva spraying with each word._

_Doing as she was told, she started to slowly walk where she was guided._

_ "Faster!" he shouted, louder this time._

_The air was full of screams but the gunfire had died down, somewhat. _

_The man pulled her by the bare top of her arm, starting along the road towards the church. The hard floor was freezing cold beneath her bare feet and the stones and shards of glass from broken windows stuck into her heels painfully. With each timid step, he only dragged her along harder as if he were in some kind of giant rush. She could see other women being carted in the same direction as her and to know of their fate was the most heart breaking thing of all. _

_The women were being moved to the church, their children dragged from their grips and pulled away into a separate room. Nina was practically shoved down on to the flagstone floor, letting out a grunt as she was briefly winded by the contact, quickly trying to crawl over to where the women had congregated. Men stood everywhere holding guns pointed at them. Everyone was crying. Fear and panic filled the air. Makarov's army looked on at them as if they were some kind of threat. A bunch of unarmed women couldn't exactly do a great deal to them, she thought. They were far too scared to attempt any kind of escape._

_Fifteen long minutes passed, Nina watched the second hand moving the whole time as she focused on the clock above the doorway. Although time had felt like it was stood still, the item proved it hadn't. The flood of women passing through the door thinned away until it stopped. Everything outside of the church seemed to have fallen silent once more, but it wasn't a peaceful kind like it had been earlier. It was an eerie, unpleasant kind. Forced by the hands of murderers. _

_They were made to line up. From tallest to shortest. She was near the taller end of the group, about two or three in. The men screamed their orders, sometimes forcefully rearranging the girls until they were in the correct positions. Eyes were bloodshot and red from tears and Nina was beginning to panic. _

_In through the door, finally came Vladimir Makarov. This was the first time she had ever set her eyes on this man in person and her stomach turned. It took everything within her not to be sick. Or lurch forward, obviously suicidal, and attempt to murder him there and then. Every emotion she felt contradicted the other. He was different to the pictures. The look on his face made her skin crawl. A smirk was firmly in place and his eyes were shining like he was a kid with a brand new toy at Christmas, like he couldn't wait to get his hands on them. The girls fell silent at once, their sobs subsiding to the occasional sniffle and clearing of the throat. Nina noticed there was splashes of red, suspiciously like blood spatter, to the left side of his face. Looks like he'd found his man._

_Makarov paced towards them, his person demanding a kind of fear and respect all rolled in to one. It was like he emitted terror. He personified the word. Walking from the short end of the line to the tall, he nodded to himself, as if impressed._

_ "You are better than I expected." He said loudly, causing one of the women to jump. One of his men sniggered as he watched on. "But there is one exception."_

_The man strolled back towards the middle of the line, his hand reaching down to pull out his hand gun. He stopped. He stayed still for a long while, leaving time for the women to panic about what was next for them. Shaking his head but not actually looking at any of the girls, he lifted the gun and shot the only visibly pregnant woman, point blank range, in the head. Her body fell to the ground with a thud and several of the women screamed out. The sobs once stifled were now freely flowing from the majority of the women. Even Nina had begun to tear up slightly, determined not to look at the dead body a few metres from her. _

_ "I have no use for her." He told no one in particular, calmly, as if he hadn't just shot a heavily pregnant woman in cold blood. "I do however have use for one of you."_


	3. Chapter 3

_**a/n: **__Well, I don't think this is going too badly. I'm glad that I've been reviewed because they really are helpful in aiding me to understand what I need to do to improve. (**especially writetheorange & TED1OUS**) Except one anonymous review which was neither helpful nor particularly nice. I expected some character hate, being a female OC and all, but sure... Next time I'll make it realistic and have Makarov choose an overweight, ugly and untalented woman to take care of his needs. I'm sorry, but when he's choosing a woman for himself, I'm fairly sure he's focusing more on what's aesthetically pleasing as feeling anything towards her is not on his agenda. But anyway, the other reviews I have received have been very appreciated so thank you!  
><em>

_I realize I haven't given you a whole lot to go on with Nina/Yael, but if I tell you everything about her straight away then it's going to get boring, isn't it? Personally, I find it more interesting to find little things out as you go along. Personality coming to light as she's put in different situations. Recollections of her past and history being spread out and not in giant bulk. But maybe that's just me, I don't know. Don't worry though, more is coming, I promise.  
>I'm also going to start writing chapters that are just flash backs and separate from what's going on with YaelSoap/Price in the present. These will focus on time spent together between Nina and Makarov. It will help you better understand why she is feeling the way she is right now toward him and how they progressed from the first flash back I have given you describing her capture, to the way they are at the beginning of the story. Maybe they will help ease any confusion you may have about how she is acting. I know it's a little jumpy right now but things will slowly start to tie in and I hope it will get better for you._

_._

Anyway, here's the next chapter. I really hope it doesn't disappoint because this took a little longer. I've been planning what's going to happen in the future, but was struggling a little finishing the now. So I apologize, not my best work. Thanks for reading!

Yael Yitzchak sat stiffly in her uncomfortable wooden chair.

Retelling this night was clearly drawing out a myriad of different emotions from her. Something in her voice gave it away, not her eyes or her facial expressions or her body language. It was her voice that was sometimes shaky at the recollection of the events, not calm and collected like it had been beforehand. Especially when she was talking about Yuliya and the shooting of the pregnant woman, he'd noticed. Strangely enough, however, not so much when she was describing of her own capture. This confused him slightly; shouldn't that have been the most terrifying thing of all? His face wasn't showing sympathy as such yet his expression had softened a little from earlier. He looked less appalled by every breath she took but she hadn't taken the time to notice. Regardless of what he thought of her, she'd put herself in a dangerous and apparently traumatizing situation to get to this man. If she wasn't serious about bringing him down, would she really go through all of that to get close to him? It seemed incredibly unlikely. But this woman, she was trained to deceived people in situations precisely like this one. There was no way he was going to rely on anything she would tell him. She wasn't going to take him for a fool again; to use them and play with them for her own gain.

It fell quiet and he could only assume that she was done with the details. Finished with her nightmarish story.

"So he picked you out of all those women? Sounds like you got lucky."

The way he had spoken almost made it sound like he was accusing her of being too lucky. It caused her to grit her teeth.

"It was not so simple like that." She interjected, not blinking. It could hardly be described as lucky, either. "Let me finish before you interrupt."

_Makarov's eyes scanned each of the women before him, inspecting them as if they were not human. As if they were a mere product he was checking for flaws before he could send them on their way. It was more than degrading. He brought a few girls to step forward from the rest as he progressed up the line. They were too scared to look at each other and verbalize the questions that were running through their heads about why they had been chosen. What was going to happen to them now? Once he reached Nina, his eyes explored every inch of her just like he had done with the others. It made her feel dirty. Exposed, somehow. Like maybe he knew who she really was... The thought of being found out sent her heart in to a frenzy. The truth was she was too scared to look back in to his eyes, so instead she kept her gaze fixed out of a window on the opposite side of the room, like a coward. It seemed strange that she was mentally begging that something about her would captivate him enough that he would want to keep her when her natural instinct was telling her to get as far away from this man as she possibly could. _

_But he did not ask her to step forward. The girls he had asked forward were much more beautiful. They were bony and thin and had long blonde hair, perfect lips and almond shaped eyes. They were young – early twenties she suspected – whereas she was almost twenty nine. Maybe she had been the wrong choice for this assignment after all, like she had tried to tell them. Makarov stood before her, looking pleased with his choices, turning his attention away from her with disinterest. It was then that sobs begin to drift towards the church, steadily growing closer to the old, rickety building. Those sobs made Nina's heart drop for being achingly familiar. It took a few moments, but her fears were realized as one two of Makarov's men walked into the church, Yuliya in their grips. _

_ "We have found a straggler." One of the men spoke up, pushing her with some force in the direction of the other girls. _

_ "Nina, I'm sorry." Yuliya cried as she saw her friend in the line up._

_ "Shut up!" The same man as before shouted at her as if she had no right to talk whatsoever. _

_Makarov watched the girl with a taunting smile as she sobbed loudly in to her hands, his head tilting to the side slightly. Before Nina could even stop it, she let her own little muffled whine leave her lips. Yuliya was going to end up like the rest of them. The apology had torn in to Nina's heart. Why couldn't she have just hidden her a little better? Why couldn't she have just kept quiet until the men had left again? That hiding space had never been meant for anyone but Nina – a cowardly backup plan if she were to decide she couldn't go through with being taken – but she hated herself for it not working. More so than if it had been her hiding in there. The sound she had made was enough to bring the attention of the mismatched eyed brute back to her once more. _

_ "This woman is a friend of yours?" Makarov asked, speaking directly to Nina this time. Clearly he had heard her._

_Scared of receiving a bullet to the brain just like woman a few people down from her, she nodded her head at his question. She automatically assumed noncompliance would end in her demise, no matter how much she didn't want to converse with him in any way. _

_He reached out without any kind of hesitation, taking Nina's shoulder and pulling her to stand closer to Yuliya. He looked pleased with her answer, even though it had been one he was expecting._

_ "I'm sorry Nina," she whispered again, her voice hindered by the shaky breaths she was taking between sobs. The woman was a shuddering mess. Her eyes were red and her full, freckled cheeks were sticky with tear trails._

_ "It will be okay." Nina told her, offering her the best smile she could muster up under the circumstances. It was more of a twitch at the corner of her mouth than anything else. Makarov appeared to look on in amusement. __**Would it really?**_

_ "Decide for me this, Nina." Makarov said calmly, as if it were set to be the most reasonable suggestion in the world. "One of you accompanies me. One of you dies."_

_That had not been what she was expecting him to say and it soon became clear that this was all a game to him. What kind of twisted person did he have to be to think of these things on the spot? This wasn't just about making money to fund his cause. He enjoyed causing hurt and suffering._

_How in God's name could she choose that without feeling like a monster? The goal she had been set was to get close to Makarov by any means necessary but she would have never imagined that this would be the cost. If she let Yuliya live, she herself would die and would fail what she had been sent here to do. She didn't want to die and she most definitely didn't want to fail the people who had trusted her to do this right. The people who had put blind faith in her even when she, herself, had none. Yuliya would go on to live what she could only assume would be a life worse than dying. If Nina was to step forward and go with him, it would almost be like saving her friend from a life of pain and suffering at Makarov's hands, right? Her heart stopped and there was a lump in her throat that made it hurt to breathe. The fact she was trying to justify what was essentially letting her closest friend for three years be killed was making her feel sick. This was why she was not supposed to get involved with people. When you got involved with people it made things complicated. But she had never been good at taking advice. _

_ "It will be better for you to die than to live your life with this monster." Nina murmured, turning her attention back to her friend. Her helpless friend with no say in this matter whatsoever. She couldn't have cared less whether or not the statement meant anything to Makarov but figured he had heard much worse. The blonde's eyes grew wide at the words and the realization that she was about to die clearly set in. Nina wished she hadn't looked back at the girl. The memory of how scared she looked would haunt her forever. _

_It was clearly taken as a final answer because before Nina could even say a word of apology or goodbye to the girl before her, the sound of a gunshot rang out through the room and Yuliya fell to a heap on the floor. Lifeless. Nina jumped. Several of the women looking on let out screams. Blood pooled around her and seeped into the cracks and crevices in the stone, spreading slowly towards Nina's feet. She took a step back, her eyes so full of tears that wouldn't come out that she could barely see through them. They were burning. She was burning with anger and fear and guilt. This was too much. The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach was too much. She wasn't strong enough for this. Who had she been kidding in ever thinking she was? Why did she always have to bite off more than she could chew?_

_ "Who killed the child?" Makarov asked, turning to his men, still gripping on to his gun tightly. The topic had switched quickly and he completely ignored the sobbing Nina and the carcass of her friend on the floor._

_A few near the front of the group shifted awkwardly and turned their heads toward a member near the left. He was the tallest of them all._

"_You will lie next to him."_

_The soldier parted his lips to speak, clearly to offer some kind of explanation that it was an accident, but before the words left his lips, he joined Yuliya and the pregnant woman. Dead on the floor by the hands of his boss after an easy squeeze of the trigger. Several of the men surrounding him shifted awkwardly; clearly disheartened by the fact Makarov was so quick to kill one of his own, trusted men for what they could only see as an accident. And without any kind of real warning, too. Makarov saw it as nothing more than carelessness. _

"_Time to go." He nodded toward his men who took it as their cue to start escorting the women to transport. The group split without any other orders, uniformly carrying out their duty._

_Then he turned to Nina, taking the top of her arm and leading her out of the exit of the church. He was somewhat less forceful than the other man had been when they were dragging her to this place and she kept close behind him, his pace rushed but not unreasonable. Once Makarov was out of sight, she could hear the other women start to cry again and she knew she would never see any of them ever again._

_There was a chill in the air as he dragged her silently towards his car; it seemed strange considering earlier she had observed it was quite mild for the season. Makarov didn't hesitate in opening the back door, helping her inside of the vehicle before slamming it shut once she was securely seated within. Although inside it looked like it should smell of that unique new-car smell, the only scent in her nostrils was that of sour and coppery blood. She was shaking from head to toe and he could feel that as he'd walked with her. Everything had happened so quickly she was fairly sure it hadn't all set in yet. Maybe it wouldn't for a while, that the man she was supposed to get close to had just murdered three people before her very eyes. One of her friends. Even though she had thought she had prepared herself for this moment, it was nothing like she had expected it to be. There was no way you could ever make yourself prepared for a moment like this._

_Eventually, she was going to die at the hands of this man, wasn't she?_

_ "Where are you taking those women?" She looked over at him as he got in to the other side of the vehicle. The truth was she knew exactly where those women were going, but it seemed like a question an in-the-dark girl would ask in her situation. They would be shipped from the port, to faraway countries for slavery, prostitution and organ harvesting. _

_How did he sleep at night?_

_Makarov ignored her question bluntly, getting comfortable in his seat as he pulled the door shut behind him carefully. He leaned forward and spoke to his driver, giving him instructions on where exactly to take them. The vehicle buzzed to life and it didn't take long for them to race away from the scene of death and destruction like nothing had even happened. She wondered how long it would take before someone stumbled upon the village and realized everything was wrong. When the lifeless bodies of the men and elderly dragged in to the streets would be found. When the children locked up inside a room, alone and frightened, would be rescued._

_The journey back to his safe house was long. They travelled for what felt like hours without a break, in a silence which she was sure was on purpose, to force her to submit to her thoughts. To replay the events of the last few hours over in her head like she could think of nothing else. It had worked. The sight of Yuliya endlessly repeated and every time she wanted to cry once more._

_ "You think I am a monster?" Makarov turned to look at her as they neared the end of their journey, speaking to her for the first time since they had left the church. He didn't seem fazed, as if somehow her replying 'yes' would affect him in any way. It wouldn't._

_Nina took in a deep breath through her nose, the sound of his voice causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end. She wasn't going to answer him. What was she supposed to say?_

_ "Answer me." He said, not sounding angry as such, just firm. He lifted his handgun to point at her torso and there seemed to be something so casual about the way he looked as he did it. Like the idea of killing someone meant nothing to him. She was sure it meant nothing to him and all she could think about was the idea of one day, turning her own gun on him. Maybe that thought would be the one that saved her. "Now."_

_Nina's bottom lip started to tremble uncontrollably and she nodded her head stiffly in response to his question._

_ "Was that a yes?" He looked at her and raised his eyebrows, pressing the gun into her ribs._

_ "Yes." She said aloud desperately as she started to cry, closing her eyes and still nodding. "Yes."_

_ "You are scared of me, aren't you?"_

_ "Yes, I'm scared of you..." She breathed._

_The gun retreated away from her and returned to its holstered position. Makarov fell silent without any kind of response to her but somewhere inside of him he was satisfied. The fact these Loyalist dogs would cower from him was satisfying. Satisfying in ways he could not explain. He sat with a blank facial expression and not one word left his lips for the rest of the trip. He didn't speak to her again directly for almost two, long days._

Soap watched as she came to a stop once more, her expression a forced kind of blank. It was as if she needed to cry or get angry or emotional but she refused. Her body or her mind, or maybe both, refused. Maybe it was because he was sat observing her so intently it was almost invading, his suspicious eyes trying to really work her out. Trying to determine whether or not he could believe a word she was saying. Maybe she had spent so much time with Makarov that that recollection wasn't even the worst. Maybe she'd seen so many evil things that she'd closed a part of herself off before the emotions could consume her entirely. Maybe that was the easy way out.

"That's rough," he breathed out. What he'd meant to do was apologize for the loss of her friend but he was entirely sure it wouldn't be appreciated; not from him. It wasn't however a surprise that Makarov and his men could behave in such brutal ways when he'd seen it firsthand. He couldn't imagine going through such an ordeal and that was the God's honest truth.

"Life is 'rough'." She said curtly, staring back at him. "I am not a slave to a rich man with absurd and perverse wants and desires. I am not used for amusement for Makarov's lonely men. I am not face down in an Egyptian desert, missing organs that have been harvested against my will. To say that I had it rough is an insult to the women he did not choose."

"He must have ended up treating you pretty good for you to defend him like that earlier though, eh?"

"Do not judge me, MacTavish!" She spat, the increase in volume catching him off guard. Unlike Price, he was pushing all the right buttons, accidentally, but nonetheless it was drawing out anger. Emotion. Emotions he knew were harder to fake than stories that could be perfected with years of rehearsal. Emotions could ruin the best of liars. "Do not judge me when you do not know what it was like."

"Nah, you're right. I don't know what it was like. But I'm certain nothing he could do would ever make me sympathize with him. You've been in too deep for too long."

Yael's well groomed eyebrows pulled together in an angry frown, her eyes narrowed dangerously at the man sat before him. Did he really just say what she'd thought he had? Was he insinuating that she couldn't handle the situation she was in? When she had been first captured by Makarov, she had even questioned that herself. But not now. After everything she'd been through, she refused to believe she could have played out her role any better. Who the Hell did he think he was, sat there judging her like he knew her? Like he knew what she could and couldn't handle? Like he knew what she had spent four years of her life doing?

"Are you suggesting I cannot do my job properly?" Her voice wasn't loud as it had been previously. It sounded quietly outraged at his accusation. "I do not sympathize with him! He is a monster!"

Yael's mind was whirling. Did she really sound like she sympathized with him? She was frankly unaware that she had talked enough to give off any kind of impression of how she had felt throughout this ordeal. Nothing concrete enough to build such claims upon, anyway. How dare he try and tell her how she was feeling when he had barely a clue what was going on!

Each word that left this man's lips made her grow angrier.

Soap shrugged, looking as if it was a perfectly viable explanation.

"Not saying you can't do your job, but if Makarov gets in your head, plays with your mind a bit, drums up some Ultranationalist ideas you agree with? You might lose it. Forget what you're in this for. That's what he does. Then hey, look at that. We've got ourselves a rogue Mossad operative."

"Stop talking or when I get out of this chair I will remove your tongue."

"Would you be as defensive if you thought I was wrong?" he responded, obviously not taking her threat seriously.

"I mean it, MacTavish."

Soap looked at the woman before him with a shake of his head. The tone of her voice which was obviously supposed to sound intimidating only made her sound like she was some kind of insane. It wasn't completely unrealistic to assume she was insane. Her hair was still damp and had twisted in to haphazard ringlets as it started to dry, unattractively frizzy in most places. Some strands clung to her damp skin, framing her oval face. What appeared to be very light make up lines zigzagged down her anger-flushed and bruised cheeks. She was a mess. Her eyes were bloodshot, her body was shaking but she made it easy not to feel sorry for her. Not to want to help her.

"It astounds me how you waltz right in and pull me out of a world I spent seven years trying to be a part of and you expect me to just cooperate with you. You have no idea what you have done. Makarov will never take me back now. He will have expected me to have betrayed him for promises of my freedom. That if you keep me safe, I will lead you straight to him. He would never take the risk of being found to have me back."

It felt like something was cutting off her air supply. A frustration like she had never before felt was consuming every part of her. It was as if everything bad she had been through was for nothing because it was all over now. She was never going to see Makarov again. Unlike she would have thought, the idea didn't bring her any feeling of relief. More than anything, she felt a confusingly overwhelming feeling of regret. Like she hadn't done enough to justify her being sent there in the first place. She hadn't helped enough. And it was all thanks to some men on some kind of personal mission; men who had fooled themselves into thinking they could bring down such a powerful man.

Yael sighed helplessly. They did not understand.

It was then, to the surprise of both of them in that room, the supposedly hardened and superiorly trained intelligence officer broke down in to a flood of silent tears.

As he looked on, Soap shifted uncomfortably for a moment in his seated position, unaccustomed to such situations. He had never been good with crying and emotional women. Well, women in general, actually - as they could be quite a rarity on the job. What was he supposed to say? Was she gonna stop? The man got to his feet and pushed the chair he had sat on aside in silence – all apart from the occasional sniff and heavy breath coming from the weeping woman before him. It was only now he felt the first pang of guilt for having kept her tied up and cold, grilling her on a situation that had clearly deteriorated her. Although for the entire time she'd been trying to give off the impression she was some kind of emotionless, unaffected warrior, he could see now that it wasn't as simple as that. She wasn't a strong as she acted and he couldn't help but wonder whether Makarov had done this to her. It was either that or she really had been a poor choice for such an assignment. Deep down, he suspected it was the first.

"I'll go find you some dry clothes and something to eat." Soap spoke up in a gruff tone that didn't reflect his minor change in perception of her. Maybe that was what she wanted of him. "But don't get your hopes up. You're not going anywhere until we figure this shit out."

Yael didn't respond but he hadn't expected her thanks or acknowledgement. At least the tears seemed to have subsided somewhat. Like they had served as the outlet she needed and she was beginning to calm herself down again. She was heading back to the cold and collected state she had been in previously.

As she sat, her shoulders aching incessantly at the stressful position her tied hands were subjecting her to, she watched him walk away from her. Towards the heavy looking metal door that was the only way in or out of the chilly, basement like room. His steps were agonizingly slow to a woman who just wanted him to shut the door behind him and leave her to mull over what she was going to do. How she was going to tackle this predicament she was in and come out on top. How she was going to convince them that she was one of the good people here, that her intentions had always been the best. Because they had and she never doubted this for a second. And then he stopped. He turned to face her. He spoke.

"Are you in love with Makarov?" he asked slowly, sounding as if he were unsure as to whether or not he wanted to hear the answer.

The response required no thought and she responded hastily. It sounded as if she was offended he even needed to ask such a thing.

"No."

As soon as the word left her lips, deep down, she knew it was a lie.


	4. Chapter 4

**_a/n:_** _Okay, so this next chapter is a step back in time. It's not a part of what's going on now with Yael/Soap/Price, it's just a snippet to show you what life with Makarov and Nina was like before she was taken. There's going to be more of these as time progresses as this is mostly the point of the story. I wanted the challenge of trying to write a man like him falling in love. So this kind of just starts that out. Nothing too drastic going on, but it's got to start somewhere and there's some useful information in here.  
>Second thing, can I just say thank you for all the reviews I've been getting? Seriously, I'm so grateful you have no idea. I don't just mean for the compliments or anything, but for pointing out what my weaknesses are so I can pay more attention to them and improve myself as I go. And also, thank you for doing it so nicely. I know people can be a little harsh on here, I really appreciate you being so nice about it.<br>Lastly, I apologize for how long this update took. I've been writing it for a while but I couldn't get the ending right. I'm still not 100% happy with it so sorry about that. No matter how much I tried it was the best I could come up with, so. And also, about her knowing MacTavish already, that will be explained in future chapters. Not to worry. I'm not going to make some crazy love triangle or something, but there is a 'friendship' genre listed for a reason and I'm going to hopefully make an epic one for the two. Rest assured however, not everyone 'loves' her. Good old Cpt. Price always will hate her guts. ;)_

_So, I hope you enjoy this chapter! Thank you guys for reading! _

It had been thirteen months to the day since she had been plucked from the village by Makarov and his men. As each passed, she lost a little part of herself.

Yael Tzofia Yitzchak. **Pronounced: Ya-El, Meaning: Ibex.** That was something her brother had always teased her about when they were growing up – that he got to be a lion while she was a lousy mountain goat. She would tell him it was just a name but wished she could be a strong, brave lion. When she was a little older, her mother had sat her down for a bed time story but instead told her of a heroic and courageous woman named Yael who cleverly turned the tide of an important Jewish battle, back in Biblical times. She had sat and listened intently, enthralled by her mother's words. Although she never told her older brother, the young one felt proud her name had such a meaning and aspired to one day be cunning and courageous like the woman in the story she had learned. That night, she was sure the proud smile had remained on her lips even as she slept.

They had spent summers as a family on the beaches of Haifa and those were the memories she clung on to with everything that she had, blindingly clear in her mind as if she'd managed to keep snapshots. Laughing with her mother and father, chasing her brother with fistfuls of sand as her grandparents watched on with pride in the fact that they had finally reached their idea of 'the perfect life'. Yael had a lot to thank her grandparents for, especially her ability to speak Russian as if she'd lived there all her life. The couple had scarpered to Israel as outcast Jews not long after its formation, grateful they had managed to escape the grips of WWII, if only with their lives. Instead of the more common second language of Arabic or even English, Russian had been spoken so commonly in her household that it took its place instead. Yael had had no idea all those years ago that as she harmlessly sat singing old Russian folksongs on her grandfather's knee, one day it would give her the ability to earn the trust of one of the most ruthless terrorists the world had ever seen.

It was as almost as if that little girl had never existed.

Instead, present was Nina Valikhanova, a woman who had experienced things that little girl couldn't ever have conjured up in her darkest nightmares. She had seen a disregard for human life that she didn't even realize was possible. But that wasn't even the most terrifying thing of all. How, giving all that she'd witnessed, could she still manage to sleep at night? How could she roll over in the Egyptian cotton, one-thousand five-hundred thread count bed sheets and close her eyes as if everything around her was as it should be? It was almost amusing that this was the thought that was keeping her up tonight.

A storm ravaged outside of the condensation-bleary windows, the likes of which she had never seen. The winds threatened to snap limbs from the trees oscillating outside and toss them aside as if they were mere twigs. The rain seemed to fall in a sheer blanket that engulfed everything in the town, spattering against the windows ruthlessly rather than droplets haphazardly falling to the ground. All the growls and howls of the gales were only punctuated by obnoxiously loud grumbles of thunder; lightning that instead of forking lit up entire clouds effortlessly. It somehow felt more threatening than it usually would as she curled up in her bed alone, trying to block out the sounds with her impromptu trip down memory lane. It could only work to an extent before seeing her brother's smile or hearing her boyfriend's laugh was torn in to by the abrupt crash of a dustbin colliding with a car some way down the street. Either that or the gut wrenching feeling of sorrow and guilt that her friends and family would no doubt assume that she was dead. She had subjected them to that pain. It was all her. Now that she was finally in Makarov's grip however, she couldn't help but feel that to some extent, it was worth it. Closing the divide between them was the only thing that she needed to focus on and for the first time in over four years it was beginning to feel like it wasn't so impossible.

Nina slipped out from underneath the white covers that adorned her spacious, double bed and sat up. The softly textured carpet was warm beneath her feet and she glanced around the relatively dark room, waiting for her eyes to adjust enough to find her way towards the door.

This was the room where she spent the majority of her time, shut inside to the point where she may as well have called it her prison. The days and weeks when Makarov stayed away from the house entirely, conducting trips to foreign countries or carrying out one of his intricate and flawless attacks, were the longest. She spent the time perfecting herself in anticipation for his return, knowing that the more she adhered to his ideas of perfection, the more tolerable her life would become. There were strict rules she was to follow in all aspects of her appearance. The clothes she was to wear were picked out for her by someone she didn't know and she had no say in what was delivered to her teak armoire. The attire she wore mainly consisted of silk blouses and tight-fitting tweed skirts – not particularly to her taste but she would never speak a word of complaint. She was restricted from wearing any kind of heels because being only slightly shorter than Makarov, anything over an inch put her above his height and it was something he quite obviously detested. As for makeup, she was allowed to wear lipstick but nothing else, nothing on her skin or her eyes. Her nails had to be filed square and couldn't be longer than the ends of her fingers – they were never allowed to be painted. He'd insisted her hair was to be grown upon arrival, to reach down just below her breasts. Never shorter, never longer, always well maintained and cut regularly to avoid damage and most importantly, never tied up. It was a lot of work but it wasn't like she had much else to occupy her days wasting away in the antique bedroom.

When he returned to the old house, things became much different. Rarely was he around during the day time, but he would always make it home in time to eat dinner with her. A knock on the door to signal the food was ready and Nina was to her feet, heading towards the dining room quickly so as not to aggravate the impatient man who would be awaiting her before he started. That was when she had to make sure she looked at her best. They would sit at the table together and eat, usually she would stay silent and he would play music to fill the void in the air. Classical mostly, by composers she wasn't familiar with. He would tell her about the pieces, what they would mean, how genius the composition was to draw out certain emotions from the listener. It was quite intriguing to hear him so engrossed in something other than his work and he could talk extensively and passionately about them as if every time he heard it, the music was new to his ears. It took a long time before she would dare speak up in a conversation with him. It felt like her voice hadn't been used in months because he was usually the only human interaction she had and she was always too scared that she would say the wrong thing or he would get aggressive that she was voicing an opinion. One night they had been listening to a piece by Tchaikovsky, something that was vaguely familiar to her, like she had heard it somewhere before but hadn't been paying very much attention. He must have caught the flicker of a smile on her lips as she listened intently and questioned her directly on her thoughts. Her response was timid but the way he spoke to her wasn't disrespectful or patronizing, it was an honest kind of interested, like he wanted to engage in conversation with her. They talked for a short time before the conversation ran dry and he headed to make a routine after-dinner Espresso – the one part of the evening he took entirely in to his own hands.

As the evening would draw to a close and once the Espressos were finished, they would have sex. What she considered was her only true purpose in the house and the only real reason he kept her around instead of tossing her out on the street. He would walk her to her room and the act was so meaningless it was almost mundane. The first few times it happened, she felt so repulsed by every touch that she had been on the verge of tears throughout most of the ordeal – something she was careful to hide, in case it angered him somewhat. Every breath against her skin seemed to linger there and she understood why women would spend hours in the shower after such an occurrence, scrubbing their skin raw. It never quite worked and she carried a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach for days on end afterwards. They would never kiss and they hadn't to this day. She had also learned that even though not being able to reach her climax was almost always the case, he didn't appreciate the feeling that he couldn't satisfy. The first time it had happened he was so angry he threw the bedside lamp at the wall in a fit of rage, sending her in to scared tears which only worsened his mood. He had screamed curse words that echoed in her mind all night long before storming out and not seeing her again for what would be three, nerve-wracking days. He apologized by leaving her a copy of Tolstoy's 'War and Peace' on her dresser and she always made sure to fake it from that day on.

Their relationship – if it could be referred to as that at all – was definitely complex, but it had improved since those recollections. They talked regularly at dinner, never about anything particularly meaningful and more importantly, never about his work. It was more an awkward kind of small talk, but it was like he was trying to break her out of her shell. It was like he knew she was a person and not just an object for his amusement and was searching to learn more about her. It made her slightly nervous but they'd slipped into a comfortable routine that left her feeling a strange sense of comfort, considering the circumstances this was all under.

Makarov had never laid a hand on her or hurt her. In fact, he defied everything she'd expected of him.

Nina walked over to her bedroom door and opened it, slipping out in to the t-shaped hallway as silently as she could manage. The house was quite large and the upstairs accommodated several bedrooms besides her own that she was unfamiliar with. Often Makarov's men would stay for a few days before disappearing off to the unknown but none of them were allowed to talk to her. She eyed up the halls, contemplating whether this was such a good idea, in the back of her mind it was obvious it wasn't. She knew he was in his bedroom, she could see the light creeping out through the crack underneath his door. It was a bold move, to disturb him without any kind of warning in a room she had never dared to step foot in before now, but she needed to start taking risks. Things weren't moving quickly enough for them and she knew that she needed to get closer to him before he got bored of her presence and she lost the best chance she had at bringing him down.

The sounds of the thunder and rain crashing down upon the roof masked the sound of her first knock at his door. Maybe it was a sign she should turn around and head back now before he knew she had ever been stood there and could scold her for it. Well, it wasn't like she was ever one for believing in signs. Once again, the brunette knocked against the cold wood and this time her action was met with a response.

"What?"

It was just one word and a simple one at that, but it told her the interruption was far from appreciated. Nina finally pushed open the door and slipped inside of the room, honestly prepared for being yelled at. But instead she was greeted by a silence and an even colder glare.

There laid Vladimir Makarov, propped up against his intricately carved headboard, a prime position for reading the thick book cradled in his lap. It was striking to see him like this. For him to look so... normal. He wasn't wearing a black suit and armed to the teeth; he was in his expensive-looking pyjamas, looking rather comfortable. He wasn't planning some God-awful scheme to kill people without a single hesitation; he was just reading a book, like she'd used to do before she fell asleep. For the first time to date, she didn't see him as some cold hearted and blood thirsty murderer. All she saw was an average man doing average things.

"I can't sleep." She choked out quickly, folding her arms around herself to try and protect her bare arms from the chill in the air.

"And you think interrupting me is going to help?" He sighed out through his nose and turned his book over so the pages were face down against the covers. He didn't look at all impressed by her explanation.

"No. I just..." she raised her shoulders in something of a helpless shrug. What was she supposed to say to him? Her mind was too alive with thoughts of her old life to let her drift off in to blissful oblivion? No. "I just felt alone."

"Would you like a hug?"

Nina stood rooted to the spot, a strange kind of embarrassment washing over her. It was obvious that it wasn't a legitimate question and now he was smirking at her. He was mocking her, wasn't he, with that cold smirk? Maybe that's how he wanted her to feel, alone and cut off from the world. Maybe he wanted her to feel hopeless.

There was nothing she could say but part of her was too concerned with what his response would be to turn and leave now. Thunder split through the silence and caused the girl to visibly jump – catching her off guard more than anything but he paid no mind. If anything, his expression had softened slightly and the smirk was quickly fading away in to something unnameable.

"You are scared of the storm?" He pried, his eyebrows rising slightly.

It took some time for her to respond. Nina wasn't scared of the storm; in fact it was quite the opposite. The way the lightning lit up the sky was beautiful and she never had a complaint for being caught in the rain. Something told her it might have been a response he was searching for though so, without verbally acknowledging him, she simply nodded her head a few times.

Makarov sat there in silence for a moment, eyeing her up as if questioning her motives. Then he did something that took her by surprise, completely and utterly. More so than any rumble of thunder or angry shout he could have mustered up would have. He leaned forward in his seated position and tugged two of the pillows out from behind him that were helping him sit comfortably. He laid them on the other side of the bed, where they had no doubt come from, before he drew back the covers. He didn't look at her and he didn't say anything but it was a clear cue that she was allowed to go over. Deciding it was more sensible not to question his gesture, she padded over the hard-wood floor and sat down on the edge of his bed hesitantly. She watched him, trying to figure out whether he was paying attention to the book or secretly observing her out of the corner of his eye to test her next move. It seemed uncharacteristically friendly of him but its genuineness seemed blatant as he spoke once more.

"My little sister, she was scared of storms, like you. Once it has died down, you will leave."

There was distance in his voice, which told her he was more occupied with his thoughts than he was concentrating on their conversation. It didn't take her long for her to bring her legs up on to the bed and lie down stiffly. She was almost nervous and he could sense it. The pillows were soft but the bed was ridiculously hard, how it could be seen as remotely comfortable was beyond her. What was comfortable though was the closeness. Physical closeness that was entirely different from when they had sex.

"What is your sister's name?" Nina finally asked as she pulled the covers up around her, trying to recreate some kind of warmth.

"Why?" He snapped, sounding far too suspicious considering the innocence of the question.

"I was just curious..." She trailed off, sounding scorned. That was what happened when she tried to make a connection with a man who didn't want to make connections with anyone.

"I would rather you weren't."

A long silence fell between them once more, but she couldn't close her eyes. Every time the thunder sounded, she felt obliged to wince or at least act like it was frightening her to some extent.

"I would read to her until it was finished, to distract her."

Nina pressed her lips together and drew a long breath in through her nose, curling her fingers in the sheets as his voice rose above the sound of the rain. Unlike how it usually sounded, stern and monotonous, his voice had transformed into something else. There was an emotion there, but something so vague she couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was. Maybe it was sadness or possibly regret. Or maybe she was trying to see something that wasn't there at all. It wouldn't have been the first time she'd confused sheer nonchalance for something else that didn't exist. Maybe she just wanted to feel he could harbour something more than hate in his heart and she found herself wondering why it mattered to her.

Makarov's fingers flipped through the pages until he was once more at the start of his book. He started to read aloud to her, his voice just clear enough to be heard over the noise of the weather.

The act drew a smile from the woman beside him, who proceeded to close her eyes and seemingly relax more into her position. It was almost as if the gesture had put her at ease. So much so that despite the fact he had told her as soon as the storm died down she was to leave, she found herself drifting off to sleep – something that earlier had seemed so out of reach. How could be lying next to the man who was putting her through all of this be the solution?

Feeling his eyes growing heavy after a while of reading, Makarov closed the book and stopped echoing the words from the pages. He hadn't realized she'd fallen asleep, for he had been far too involved with the material before him. The man's eyebrows pulled together in a frown as he contemplated shaking her awake and making her leave – he didn't like to share his bed with anyone. It took him some time to come to the conclusion he would leave her. There was something so innocent and calm about the way she looked as she slept that he almost didn't want to ruin it. The slow moving of her chest as she took each slow, relaxed breath held his attention for longer than would be considered normal. The truth was, he couldn't remember the last time he had been so close to a person who looked so completely at rest, regardless of whether she was sleeping or not.

The bedside lamp flicked off and left the room in darkness. He slipped beneath the covers and into a position suitable for sleeping, careful not to move so much as to disturb Nina and most of all making sure his back was to her. It already felt too intimate that she was in his bed, his very private and personal space, facing her would be entirely inappropriate. This way, he could pretend she wasn't there at all.

After a while, the storm fizzled away in to nothing more than a breeze playing with the damp leaves on the cold pavement outside but the sleeping pair were too out of it to notice. They were lost in a dreamless slumber, the only time in which their dangerous lives were irrelevant.

The next morning, she stirred awake in his arms, curled in to his body as if she were seeking protection from something. She briefly realized it felt nice to have a strong pair of arms around her, making her feel safe. Then reality hit her like a shovel and she remembered who it was holding her. She felt guilty the thought had even crossed her mind but didn't want to move away and disturb him prematurely. Makarov woke up not long after and released her so quickly from his grip anyone would think she was toxic to the touch. He was ashamed, embarrassed even. It might have meant nothing to her but he had let his guard down, if only for a night. He shouted, screamed at the top of his lungs that she was supposed to have left – even though he knew it wasn't a viable complaint considering he'd knowingly fallen asleep with her there. He looked so angry with her. Nina clambered to her feet and almost fell out of the bed, scared and confused, desperate to hide herself away in her room. For the first time in recent memory, Makarov felt guilty for treating someone the way he had. It shook him to the core and he left her, not to return for a whole day.

Upon his arrival back, he left a book on her desk. A copy of the one he'd been reading her that night they'd spent together. He didn't apologize. In fact, he didn't speak a single word to her that evening over dinner. He didn't even play music.

After all those awkward silences and shifty looks, he took her to her room and they had sex. They had sex and for the first time ever, entirely caught up in the act at hand, they shared a kiss.


End file.
